Before either of them could ask for more clarification, Bingleton clapped those hands and said briskly, ‘For now, let us spoil you ladies a bit. Go and get settled at the inn, and we can discuss your itinerary after that.’
‘It would be lovely to freshen up,’ Isobelle agreed. They could always pin him down about his deception later – Isobelle’s stomach was rumbling. ‘And then perhaps a bite to eat. There’s so much to see, we must make sure we’re not lacking for energy.’
Lord Bingleton’s gaze drifted out to sea. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, distracted. ‘A great deal to see.’ And then he shook himself, smiling once more as he continued, ‘It will all bewonderful.’
Gwen’s reply was deadpan. ‘I’m sure it will be legendary, my lord.’
7
Well, now we know why everyone was acting so weird
The innkeeper of the Paladin’s Rest was a plump woman in her forties with dark-brown hair caught mostly beneath a voluminous cap. She had a friendly face, rather diminished by the off-putting rictus grin that occasionally parted her lips to show her teeth – clearly, she had been instructed to smile. She was hospitable enough, though, greeting each of the ladies in turn and introducing herself as Rosamund, before bringing them upstairs to show them to their rooms herself.
She brought them to the largest room first, dragging armfuls of their luggage with her. Depositing their boxes on stands, she proceeded to show off the amenities of the room. Washbasins with pipes allowing them to drain into the gardens, no need for a maid to empty them. Bathrooms stocked with sample-sized tubs of toiletries scented with herbs ‘from the sorceress’s own garden’. A little box underthe desk was stocked with snacks which, the innkeeper assured them, were entirely complimentary, despite the little hand-painted prices under each.
Rosamund went to the window and threw back the curtains, letting the late-afternoon sunlight stream into the room. It really was a grand suite, with a large bed upon a raised dais, rich tapestries warming the walls, and a wide fireplace lined with polished stone. Someone had laid a fire, and the flames crackled merrily.
Gwen eyed the fireplace with some envy – how wonderful it would be to curl up there on the plush rugs on a wintry afternoon with a cup of tea … But of course Isobelle would invite her to enjoy the fireplace anytime she wished. And, with some luck, curl up with her.
Cheered by the thought, Gwen slung her satchel over her shoulder. ‘And where is my room, Rosamund?’
The innkeeper blinked, then bared her teeth at her. The combination of the ‘grin’ with her anxious gaze was quite disconcerting. ‘Lady Knight, thisisyour room – it is the finest we have, and henceforth will be known as the Dragonslayer’s Suite. If there is anything here that does not meet with your satisfaction, I can assure you—’
Gwen glanced at Isobelle, who was clamping her lips together to hide her laughter, her eyes gleaming with pleasure and pride. ‘Oh,’ Gwen managed. ‘But I … I mean, I don’t need all this. I thought …’
‘This suite will suit her just fine,’ Isobelle broke insmoothly, stepping up and sliding her arm through Gwen’s, and flashing the innkeeper one of her brightest smiles.
The woman’s rictus grin softened a little, almost as though she was taking notes from a master and adjusting her expression accordingly. ‘Oh, all right, then. Ladies, if the rest of you will follow me …’
The tour of the rooms ended back at the Dragonslayer’s Suite, with another speech from Rosamund that was clearly composed by Lord Bingleton. As she went on about the amenities available to them, Gwen found herself at the window, looking out over the harbour. To the north was the jut of land that housed the tower, which stood tall and straight, reaching towards the sunset-gilded clouds.
‘What are you thinking?’ Isobelle had come up beside her and was studying her face. ‘You’ve got that look.’
‘I don’t know,’ Gwen murmured. ‘A feeling like something’s … off. Maybe it’s all the speeches.’
Isobelle looked out towards the tower. ‘I would’ve expected the sorceress’s tower to be all falling down and in disrepair if it was abandoned,’ she said thoughtfully.
Gwen’s breath caught. She flashed Isobelle a grin and then turned, interrupting Rosamund mid-speech. ‘How long ago did all this happen, with the sorceress? How long has the tower been abandoned?’
‘This mid-winter will be the fifteenth anniversary of the battle between the Order and the sorceress, my lady … sir … lady knight … er …’
Gwen’s muscles stiffened. Not because of the woman’s stammering – she was used to people not quite knowing how to address her – but because of the realisation that had struck her. ‘Wait … so that story Lord Bingleton told, that fairytale … it’s from only fifteen years ago?’
Tabitha had been quiet since they arrived, clearly uncomfortable with the whole anti-witch vibe of the place. Now, Gwen glanced at her, and saw that her tawny skin had gone several shades paler, and her posture had stiffened. She hadn’t said how old she was when she lived here, or when her mother had died, but … could she have been one of the victims of this reign of terror?
Isobelle was caught off-guard just as much as Gwen. ‘So all these townsfolk, you included … you were here when it happened? You remember it?’
The innkeeper tried to wipe her palms on the apron she had taken off when they arrived. ‘Yes, my lady.’
Jane, who was standing in front of the fire and turning herself slowly like a rotisserie to warm her legs from every angle, paused. Her face, rather more tanned than was fashionable among ladies with her fair complexion, was flushed from the warmth. ‘That seems in rather poor taste … Did people really die at the hands of the evil sorceress? Because making all of you act like it’s some fun story …’
Sylvie nodded, her gaze thoughtful. ‘Bingleton said he was new to the area, no?Hewasn’t here when all this happened. But you were?’
The innkeeper was sweating. She had been carrying their luggage from room to room, but Gwen suspected it wasn’t a good, honest sweat.
‘Aye, I was here when it happened,’ she said quietly. ‘But there’s no use dwelling on the past.’
‘But … is that not the whole gestalt of this place?’ asked Hilde innocently, her golden braids and milkmaid complexion only adding to the impression of innocence. ‘To exist in the past?’
